


Were you not always distracted by yearning?

by misbehavin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beaches, Cuddling, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Human Castiel, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Minor Cas whump, Pining, Sam and Dogs, Sharing Clothes, Sparring, ridiculous amount of ~casual~ touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-12-04 23:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11565348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbehavin/pseuds/misbehavin
Summary: The world went on just fine since they packed up their things and got on the road down here, so this vacation keeps expanding itself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there.  
> So, you should know I'm one of those people that think everything one writes should be self-indulging otherwise it's, um, pointless? Consider this an exercise in self-indulgence, because what can I say, it definitely is. It's also a writing exercise for me, so I admit I'm happier about some bits more than others. I do hope you'll enjoy all of it, though.  
> Also, mind the fluff. Sometimes it gets schmoopier than I anticipated. 
> 
> Title from [this poem](http://sleepwalking.nu/post/65094073685/were-you-not-always-distracted-by-yearning-as) by Rainer Maria Rilke.

 

“No. Don’t even think about it,” Sam says.

“Why not?” Dean retorts.

“Okay, fine. Then I want a dog.”

Dean scoffs, “We’re not getting a dog.” Then he backtracks, “I mean, at least not right now.”

“Exactly,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “That is exactly my point. You can’t always get what you want.”

“Man, that is the stupidest—”

“They’re a couple,” Sam says, matter-of-fact.

“And?”

“And they’re probably on their honeymoon and don’t want to be bothered.”

“You did see that hot-tub, right? It’s _ginormous_ , Sam. They won’t even know I’m there.”

“Dean, no.”

“Oh, c’mon, let me live a little!”

“He has a point,” says Castiel, surging behind them.

“Who does? Me, right?” Dean asks, faux-casual, at the same time Sam exclaims, “Cas, oh my god! Where were you? We looked for you everywhere!”

“I was taking a woman home,” he states, absently.

Sam is not drunk, unlike his brother, but it’s as if the planetary rotation had just stopped abruptly when it had been going so fast.

“Oh,” he says. “You could’ve called. Or texted.”

“That wasn’t necessary,” Cas says.

“The hell it wasn’t! We were worried.”

“Why? I was fairly quick.”

Dean snickers, the joke at the tip of his tongue, and Sam downs the rest of the booze remaining on his cup. It’s no surprise that it still burns bitter.

He pulls himself and Dean up to their feet, ignores how gross the sand feels behind his calves and on his back, and notices that Cas doesn’t look hurt in the slightest. Just the sight of him helps Sam’s anxiety ease, even if just a tad bit. He does his best not to stare too hard, savors the image out the corner of his eyes. Cas’ white button-down shirt is unbuttoned, sticks transparent in places. His sleeves are rolled up, and his hair’s still humid from the swimming lessons from earlier. He looks good, and Sam knows he shouldn’t feel anything regarding the lack of lipstick stains too, but he can’t help it.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Now that you’re here, let’s get inside, okay? It’s late and Dean is thinking of breaking and entering again.”

“No, ‘m not,” Dean says. He tries to playfully shove Sam away, but sways, trips, and almost causes them both to fall over. They stagger inside the house, and Sam nurses his brother back to sobriety as much as he can before Dean passes out.

Dean is drinking less lately, so today Sam joined him instead of lecturing, because they had been worried out of their minds since Cas had disappeared, wandered off as he keeps doing all these months since he fell from grace, eager for discovery.

(At 7:20pm, when Sam made the first call, Dean had already bought two different brands of whiskey. At 8:00pm, when Dean made the third call, they were already close to home, sitting down on the sand, watching the sea, the night sky. At 8:40, when Dean started to get drunk for real and Sam was thinking about how the whiskey was just the hunters' tradition to make their bodies more inflammable, they saw lightning hit the water. Twice. At 9:12, Sam suggested to wait a little bit longer before they started to assume the worst and went on a rescue mission. Because, honestly. They have lasted longer without Cas. Plus, he’s not a child. He knows how to look after himself. At 10:23, Dean started to ogle at their neighbors relaxing in their hot tub, most likely not on, by the way, what with the scalding weather and all. A long while later, when Dean made a move to get up and walk over there, Sam called him out on it.)

Their phones’ batteries have run out by the time Castiel shows up, but Sam knows it’s way past midnight. Still, except for Dean crashing on the couch, they are wide-awake, albeit not for the same reasons.

“Hey, Cas? Are you okay?” Sam asks, almost like second nature at this point. His hands tingle with how much he wants to reach out and make sure Cas is okay and alive and really here.

Castiel is looking outside, through the glass door that leads to their own private swimming pool, and ignores the question, as he often does.

“It’s going to rain in the morning.”

“Yeah?” Sam says. “I thought you liked rain.”

“I do, yes,” Cas says. “Only not this close to the sea.”

And right then Sam remembers the sticky sand all over him. “Um, I need a shower, can we talk later?”

“Of course. I will be by the pool,” Cas says, pulling open the doors.

“Alright, be right back.”

In order to avoid spreading sand around, Sam is careful as he walks through the house ( _their_ beach house, because Dean insists he's already started arranging the paperwork to buy it since money is no longer an issue). The bedrooms are on the second floor, as is the bathroom they use most often and where Sam heads to and takes a quick shower. On his way back downstairs, he grabs an extra pillow for Dean and almost breaks the coffee table for what must be the thousandth time while he's trying to arrange it under his head. Then he finds Cas outside, jeans now rolled up to his knees, sitting by the pool and ankle deep in the chloroform water. Cas' shoulders are tense and head is bent back as if he’s watching the sky above, but from where Sam stands he can see that his eyes are closed, his face contorted in a pained expression.

Sam tries to swallow down the uneasiness it makes him feel a couple of times, but it keeps crawling back up his throat. He bites his lip, knows better than to ask again if Cas is okay, and tests the water temperature while he waits until Cas is done praying and notices him. Once he does, less than a minute later, they both visibly relax.

“Wanna get in?” Sam suggests. “Water’s nice.”

“You showered,” Cas says. “I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” Sam says, sincerely. “I was just getting the sand off of me, anyway, but I could go for another swim.”

He didn’t bother to dry himself and put on a shirt after the shower, and he uses the opportunity of being under Cas’ piercing gaze and having his undivided attention to take his shorts off, even though he doesn’t have to. He unties the cord and pulls down the fabric at a pace that would be too slow, too deliberate if anyone else was here and could see this, a part of him hoping Castiel somehow knows what he’s doing and another other part thinking this is hysterical and he should probably stop. He tests the temperature of the water again, the tip of his toe sliding on the surface, watches Cas watching him, and considers for a brief second if proposing skinny-dipping would be a step too forward.

Then he bites his lip again so he doesn’t burst into laughter.

Slowly to not startle Cas, he gets into the pool and swims towards the other end where Cas is. “So?” he says, fighting back a grin at how Cas’ face looks as flushed as his feels. “You’re gonna come in or not?”

Instead of answering, Cas stands up and starts stripping himself, folding his clothes after removing them, something both cute and unnecessary since they're dirty. He doesn’t make a show of it but it’s only when he’s also down to his boxers that Sam realizes he hasn’t been that indiscreet about his interest and looks away, shakes his head. Asks himself how come Cas doesn’t know everything yet.

He holds out his hands, starts murmuring encouraging and comforting words as he helps Castiel into the water, the same way he did this afternoon.

Things start to get difficult once most of Cas’ body is underwater. He is utterly against submerging — which Sam understands and won’t force him into —, but there’s always the chance of him slipping and he still has trouble puffing out his lungs in order to make himself float. Dean says he doesn’t even really want to learn how to swim, and though that’s no way a bad thing, he seems to be upset by the idea of being incapable.

“Just like we did before, okay?” Sam says, his hand on the back of Cas’ head. “C’mon, it’s okay. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

It takes some time, but with Sam’s help, Castiel floats. He looks content just with that for now, safe enough in Sam’s arms to spread his own, and when he whispers, “This is nice, Sam, thank you,” Sam drowns out every terrible, guilty thought inside his head that keeps saying he’s enjoying this too much, that he should back off.

Everything is the same as they did earlier as they drift around the pool, except now something substantial feels different. Maybe it’s just the whole premature mourning and how relief curses through Sam in a way no one else but his brother would understand. Dean is not here now, though, like he was when they invited Cas into the pool and the sun was still high in the clear sky, and the fact of Dean not being present as Cas holds onto him makes Sam feel a million different things.

“I made a friend today,” Cas reveals, a long while after they’ve stopped moving around. He’s swinging his legs between Sam's, using Sam to support him as usual, holding his shoulder and bicep so tight it’ll probably bruise. Sam secretly hopes it does.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, she… She invited me to take her home and of course, she meant sex—”

“Uh, was she— how was it?” Sam blurts out, breaking eye contact, watching a droplet of water fall from Cas’ eyelash and run down his cheek. “Uhm, I. I mean. Did you, uh, did you have fun? You were gone for hours.”

Cas frowns. “She didn’t need sex. She needed a friend. And I required some advice, too.”

“Advice?”

“Yes.”

“Cas,” Sam says, exasperated. “You remember when I said you could tell and ask me anything? I meant that. You didn’t have to go find a stranger to help you with whatever it was that you needed.”

“No. But I like to make new friends.”

“I know, and that’s great, really, it is, I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m just saying, I’m here for you. I know I’ve said it before but. You know I mean that, right?”

“Yes, but Sam, this was not—”

“And don’t start with that talk about inconveniences, okay, I've told you none of your problems are inconvenient to me, so you can’t just take off and not let us know where you are or who you’re with just because you're being stubborn and won't let me help you.”

Castiel does his own version of an eye-roll, so Sam takes advantage of the fact that they’re on a corner now and presses him against the wall of the pool, traps him there.

“Look, Cas,” Sam mutters, a mix of anger and fear coming back, rising inside his chest, “you’re our family and we were worried, okay? You can’t just disappear like that. I’m sorry, but you just can’t. I can’t— We can’t lose you. Not again, alright? Not ever. Do you get that?”

Castiel stares, and things fall silent for a moment. Under the moonlight and due to the way it reflects in the water, his eyes look like a mystic, deeper shade of blue.

Sam stares back, waiting to be contested, but nothing happens.

Then Cas sighs, lifts his hand off Sam’s shoulder so it hovers close to Sam’s forehead, an old habit he forgot to break. His pruned fingers brush back Sam’s hair behind his ear, travel down to his jaw, to his neck. Cas’ knuckles are a feather-light touch to his pulse point, and all Sam can think is, God, what a stupid thing, to shiver in this heat.

“I am sorry,” Cas says, but he’s half-smiling. “I lost track of time.”

Sam wants to do something stupid, right then.

But he settles on gently pulling and holding Cas against himself. The alternative would be a risk too great, a move he deep down is still scared to make, so he shuts his eyes closed and pretends it’s not something he also craves, something he thinks about whenever they’re close and exchange looks of understanding, of forgiveness; whenever Cas hugs him back just as tight, buries his face on his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Cas apologizes, again, like he understands Sam’s concern for his well-being has nothing to do with owning him explanations.

“I know,” Sam tells him, doing a poor job of ignoring the fact that Cas legs have wrapped around his waist and that Cas' naked chest is surprisingly warm against his,  “Just please don’t do this again, okay?”

 

* * *

 

At breakfast, right after ‘good morning’, Dean tells Castiel, “if you ever pull that again, we’re disowning you.”

Cas turns to Sam with the face of innocence and asks, “What did I pull?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Dean says.

“I’m afraid I don't know how,” Cas deadpans, and Sam nearly chokes on his toast.

“Hey,” Dean warns, swinging the butter-knife in his hand at the both of them until he points it at Cas, “I mean it. Don’t do it again. We bought you a new cell for a reason, alright?”

Sam knows the joke about cells is coming before it does, so he cuts in. “I’ve talked to him already, Dean. It won’t happen again.”

Dean grunts, and soon changes the subject. As they eat, he starts to come up with ideas of what they ought to do during their stay here. Some of his suggestions are predictably terrible, but not all of them. The whole point of this place is to relax, after all, he reminds them, lay low for a bit. Forget the heavy weight of the world on their shoulders. They deserve a little break, he reiterates, repeating the same words he’d said when they first arrived and Sam’s jaw was still on the floor. They’ve earned it.

And Dean is not wrong, but there’s no way Sam is going to join his little strip-club crusade. There’s too high a chance of it not ending well. And it's not like Sam wouldn't be completely on board with just enjoying the beach and having blessed eight hours of sleep for however long this break lasts. Besides, he doesn’t feel like going after strangers — not that he’d ever admit that aloud. His casual hookups only ever happen when there is an inevitable factor to it, usually when his own relationship with sex and/or intimacy overwhelm him. And yes, he’d made his peace with having to flirt his way into strangers’ pants and never hearing from them again, but then he realized a few things, about himself and what he wants and his slim chances of getting it, so his rare, casual hookups haven’t happened at all for awhile now. And it’s okay, he’s fine with it, for the most part.

Just not so much when he can’t shake the thought of Cas holding onto his body, leaving marks on the places he’s touched, and how things flow between them so easily, how they have the kind of friendship that heals and heals and never condemns.

Watching Cas complain about the lack of fruits in their breakfast and the clouded sky outside, Sam doubts he’ll get what he longs for, but then again, he’s always had a delicate relationship with faith, too.

 

They’re almost done with breakfast when Sam’s curiosity gets the best of him.

“Hey, Cas?” he says, nonchalant. “You never told me what it was you needed advice about.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you yet,” Cas says, sipping his second cup of coffee. His hand is steady as he holds the cup, but under the table his feet is tapping against the floor in a nervous tick. Without thinking about it, Sam reaches for his knee so he stops shaking his leg.

“Why not?” he asks, a bit offended.

Castiel puts his other hand on top of Sam’s on his knee, his touch gentle. He doesn’t smile when he answers, but Sam can tell it’s because he’s the master of poker-faces.

“It’s a surprise,” Cas says, slurping the rest of his coffee.

Sam raises an eyebrow to his brother on the opposite side of the small table. Instead of providing any sort of help, Dean forgets he’s still very much hungover and widely rolls his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning it drizzles, but the weather forecast says it’ll start pouring as the day goes on. This close to the sea, the strong wind will blow sand into their yard and into the house — something Sam is trying not to think about too much. Though there are no risks of catastrophic proportion, Castiel reminds them that many natural disasters are angel’s doing, hence why he doesn’t like storms by the sea, and hence why they decide to stay in, despite their plans to be what they’ve always been everywhere: tourists.

Even with the impending rain, both Sam and Dean decide to make a quick run to the market. They come back to find Cas the same way they’ve left him: sitting on the couch with his brow furrowed as he scrolls through Netflix’s catalog. The only visible proof that he's moved at all is the fact that there are two towels on his lap now, which he gives to them once they’ve set the bags down on the kitchen and walked into the living room.

“Uh, thanks,” they mumble, still shaking a little. They went out hoping the rain wouldn’t pick up before they got back home, and now, well, they’re not drenched, exactly, but pretty close. Dean’s hair is spiky and Sam’s sticks to the sides of his face. They’re in a good mood, though, something that is becoming less and less rare these days.

As they dry themselves and change clothes, Cas fills a good amount of bowls with popcorn, putting one bag after the other on the microwave. Since he and Dean both like movie marathons so much, there is a silent agreement to have them at least once a month. Lately, it happens once a week. Sometimes twice. Sometimes every other day, but who’s counting?

“You know what I’d really like right now?” Sam says, making himself comfortable on the couch. “A milkshake.”

“I hear ya, sister,” Dean says, slumping down beside him.

“We should’ve bought the stuff to make it. I mean, it’s pretty much just ice-cream and milk.”

“We have that.”

“Nope. We’re out of milk since yesterday and you ate all the ice-cream the day before that.”

Dean groans.

“Did we just went out of our way, in this rain, just to buy popcorn for Cas and forgot to buy ice-cream despite the fact that is a freaking thousand degrees in here?”

“Yep,” Sam says, smiling a little.

“Unbelievable,” Dean huffs. There’s a pause, as it usually does right before he’s about to make a suggestion he shouldn’t. “Hey, do ya think our friendly neighbors—?”

“Dude, no.”

“Fine. Buzzkill.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

 

 

By common etiquette, three guys don’t sit side by side on a couch if there are chairs available. In this situation, there’s the excuse of the hot weather to keep themselves physically distant from one another, but not only Cas doesn’t care about that, he also doesn’t understand or approve of this common etiquette that dictates that physical touch is a threat to manhood.

“God, will you just shut the fuck up and watch the goddamn movie?” Dean complains, trying to keep Cas and Sam away from his corner of the couch.

Sam laughs and laughs and Dean throws popcorn after popcorn at his face.

They watched the Star Wars original trilogy last week, so now then jump straight onto other stuff, going through different genres so everyone’s satisfied. During documentaries they talk, Sam casually dropping weird facts not mentioned in what they’re watching while Cas demystifies theories and Dean gives some passionate opinions about the whole deal. They watch some horror too, can’t avoid it, but making fun of the ugly visual effects turns the experience better, lighter, less stress-inducing.

It’s very late at night when it’s time for rom-coms and Cas lays down his head on Sam’s lap. He curls up by his right side, surreptitiously grabs his hand and holds it against his abdomen. The way it happens is so natural Sam only registers it halfway into the second movie, because whenever a scene with intimacy is displayed Cas squeezes his hand and looks up at him, as if he’s inspecting how he reacts or if he does at all.

Sam pretends not to notice, as the minutes and the hours go by. Some of those scenes involve sex, but not all of them, and although Cas never refrains from asking questions, no matter how tricky the subject, he’s very silent now, and Sam doesn’t know what to think of it, though he definitely hopes for some things.

In the current scene, a girl runs her fingers through another girl’s hair, lulls her to sleep. Sam’s free hand twitches and he closes it into a fist by his side every time the quiet, reassuring moment repeats itself on the screen.

It’s almost over when he’s startled by the sigh his brother lets out, and feels bad for being surprised that the sound isn’t a sign of boredom, or annoyance, or prejudice. Dean can’t help half of the crap that comes out of his mouth most of the time, but he’s not like that when it matters. Looking at him, brows furrowed and eyes glued to the TV, he just seems pensive. Sighing like he understands.

For a brief moment, Sam thinks this would be a nice moment to spill his guts out. Admit to silly things and major ones, recite the names of everyone he’s ever fallen for, girls and boys and people in between or beyond those labels, even though there’s no need for him to say anything since his brother can probably guess — it’s not like he’s ever put an effort on being subtle about it. Still, it’d be nice, he thinks, to say it all out loud and make it known that it was so goddamn predictable of him to fall for someone as wonderful as Cas.

The thing is, Cas is here. Cas is right here, and there’s a good chance he knows all of that already because he knows everything there is to Sam Winchester, save a few things, save the things Sam is hiding now and is carefully working up the courage to confess. And with Cas being here, there’s no guarantee to where the conversation would lead up to, and what if Dean somehow manages to come up with precise questions that would require direct answers, what then?

Sam opens and closes his hand once more, blows a shuddering breath. Says nothing. Continues to pretend not to notice Cas glancing up at him.

When the two people on screen almost kiss, for the fifth time, both Sam and Dean mutter in unison, “oh, for fuck’s sake,” and a tug on the hem of Sam’s shirt follows their indignation as Cas turns away from the movie, suddenly.

“Sam,” he murmurs.

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, yeah?”

“Can you tell me how it ends later?”

Sam furrows his brow. “We could just pause it and watch the rest on another day.”

Dean is on his feet in an instant, already fumbling with the remote and complaining about rom-coms under his breath. “Is it really that difficult to get to the fucking point, man, what the fuck— ”

“You’re gonna take a nap?” Sam asks Cas.

Castiel nods, closes his eyes.

“Uh, here?” Sam inquiries, looking at their entwined fingers. “I mean— You’re gonna take a nap here?”

“The bed’s too far,” Cas points out.

“Could you, uh, could you at least let me up so—”

“No,” Cas interrupts, his free hand clutching to Sam’s shirt and burying his face on Sam’s stomach.

Sam sucks a breath and then slowly lifts his head to look at his brother wide-eyed, already bracing himself for the knowing look and the joke.

Dean just raises an eyebrow at him from where he stands in the center of the room, raises both hands as if in surrender. He grabs two bowls of all the remaining popcorn and lingers a little, maybe assessing the situation, but as soon as Sam goes to speak, he retreats towards the stairs at quick speed, almost jogging. It’s one of the most ridiculous thing Sam has ever seen him do.

“Dean—!” Sam calls.

“Save it! I so do not need to know!” Dean yells back. “And be quiet! And don’t forget, y’know, protection or whatever!”

“Oh my god, shut up, asshole!”

“Sam, shhh,” mutters Cas, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking back down at him as he feels heat creep up his neck. Castiel seems unimpressed and unaffected by Dean’s insinuations, and for some reason, that doesn't make things any easier. Sam lets go of Cas' hand to pat his face. It’s smooth, freshly shaven.

“Yeah, sorry," Sam says, quieter now. "Just sleep, okay?”

 

* * *

 

It’s still dark outside when Sam wakes up with Castiel’s head on top of his chest and his right hand on his neck. There’s pins and needles in his right foot and Cas is pretty much covering him entirely, sharing so much body heat Sam thinks they should have at least taken their shirts off if they were considering sharing a leather couch. In any way, even if it isn’t as comfortable as it’d be if they were on a bed and if it was winter, it is cozy to be like this, it’s good to be wrapped up with someone else. The rain that continues to fall outside helps to relieve the warmth, so Sam can't complain.

Cautious of the edge of the couch, he holds Cas’ middle to keep them both from toppling over as he slides down into a better position, and for a few minutes, he just lays there listening to their breathing and to the sound of raindrops, absentmindedly drawing tiny circles on the back of Cas’ neck with his thumb while he wonders how many days this rain is going to last and when will Cas decide he’s ready to get into the sea. Sam hesitates just for a few seconds before he dares to move his hand up and card his fingers through Cas’ dark hair, slowly massaging his scalp, all the way up and back down again.

It goes on for a while, a reassuring type of intimacy that eases so much of his worries, until Cas mumbles something, snuggles closer as if he’s trying to give one of those rib-crushing hugs despite them being laid down.

“Cas?” Sam whispers, his hand still stuck in Cas’ hair.

“I said… This makes me very happy.”

Sam inhales deeply at that, tightening his hold of Cas' body as he sets his hand back to brushing Cas’ hair, allowing himself to enjoy this one good thing life granted him as he does, the heartwarming company of someone he’d die for, someone he trusts his whole existence with.

“Yeah,” says Sam, softly. “Me too.”

“Next time," Cas sighs, "My turn.”

Sam smiles as he hums in agreement, relaxing under Cas again.

It doesn’t take long before they fall back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my God, are you. Are you two _cuddling_?” Dean asks, just as Sam is waking up again.

“What? No,” Sam says. To Dean’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “He fell asleep on me.” Which is, you know. The truth.

Dean’s face contorts as if he’s trying really, really hard not to laugh his ass off.

“Sammy—”

“Shut up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, making his way to the kitchen. “On my own home. Cuddling.”

“Are you jealous or do you want to join?”

Dean's laughter is a rather reassuring sound. “Dream on, Samuel!”

“It’s Sam!” Sam protests, and then realizes blue eyes blinking up at him. 

“Oh, hey, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” Cas says, his voice rougher than usual. His hair is unbelievably disheveled and one side of his face has a light flush, and he looks cute as fuck when he winces at the loud sounds of Dean preparing breakfast, opening and closing drawers and washing silverware. “You’re a nice pillow, Sam,” he affirms in a sigh, his chin digging deeper into Sam’s sternum.

Sam smiles at him, carefree, and with the tip of his finger scratches gently at the gross dried saliva on Cas' cheek. “Anytime, _Castiel_.”

Disentangling his limbs from Sam’s then, Cas sits up, yawning, and stretches. He steals a glance at Sam, and his lips pull to the side in an a shy smile. When he stands up, Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from asking him to not go just yet.


	3. Chapter 3

The world went on just fine since they packed up their things and got on the road down here, so this vacation keeps expanding itself.

And they know they have to leave this place eventually, but they’ve been calling it home. It’s well-protected enough, sigils and devil’s traps and salt everywhere, and there are no chances of bad things happening in the foreseeable future here. They’re not retired, not really, but they’re safe, and what else is home but the place you feel most safe in? They feel so settled it's almost like they don’t miss the adrenaline rush of chasing monsters, the incomparable satisfaction of saving people. And not missing it as much as they thought they would it’s not a bad thing, not at all, except when it means they’ve let their guard down. And especially now with Cas being human, that’s not something they can afford.

That’s the excuse they’re telling themselves, anyway.

“Why are you breaking the furniture?” Cas asks, leaning against the door-frame of the kitchen and crossing his arms. He’s wearing his PJs, consisting of his underwear and an old T-shirt of Sam's that falls way, way above his knees, which is something Sam tries not to hate him — or himself — for.

“Shit,” Sam curses, when Dean gets him in a headlock for what must be the third time today. If he’s being honest, this last distraction was just outright unfair.

“We’re not breaking the furniture,” Dean says, letting go of his brother after another few seconds of struggling. “That stupid vase shouldn’t be there,” he motions his hand in the general direction of the shards of said broken vase, swept out of the way.

“Then what are you doing?”

From his place lying on the floor, Sam absolutely does not look at Castiel when he answers. “We’re training,” he coughs. “Can’t let ourselves get rusty, you know.”

Also, we were pathetically bored, he doesn’t say.

Cas stays silent, observing. The coffee table has been moved to the far corner and the couch pushed against the opposite wall, and the windows are opened wide enough the whole room is bathed in sunlight, looking bigger than the first time they’ve stepped foot in it even though two Winchester-sized men are in the middle of it.

“Would it be okay if I joined you?” Cas asks, eyes trained on Sam’s sprawled form on the floor.

“Yeah, ‘course it's okay,” Sam says.

Dean shrugs. “You want us to teach you anything?”

For the most part, it’s a valid, innocent question.

“Have you already forgotten I was born a warrior?” Castiel retorts, using that calm tone of voice he reserves for making threats.

It’s a good thing Sam is not standing because all his blood starts rushing downwards.

“No,” Dean grunts. “‘Course not.” He clears his throat, “You want to fight me or Sammy first?”

“I’ve fought you too many times.”

Dean snorts. “You’re telling me,” he says. “Alright, I’ll, uh, I’m gonna grab a beer and make us some snacks.” Over the balcony, he taunts, “Try not to kick his ass too hard!”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, looking anywhere but Cas’ thighs as he gets back on his feet.

“Wasn’t talking to you, Sasquatch,” Dean scoffs, and that’s all the warning Sam gets before Cas knocks him down face-first on the wooden floor.

“Shit,” he curses, again, because already this is more than he thinks he’s able to deal with.

He’s heavier than Cas, so he manages to free himself of Cas’ hold.

It doesn’t last.

Cas is onto him, and he fights almost as dirty as Winchesters do, but he’s skilled in a way it would take them several lifetimes to match. He holds back his strength so his successful punches don’t hurt, but despite that, his hands are firm where they meet Sam’s body, as they often are in every other occasion.

Sam blocks out a punch to his face then another to his ribs, but isn’t fast enough to dodge the one to his stomach, and Cas keeps on coming even as Sam takes steps backwards to try and regain his composure.

“You’re a good fighter,” Cas comments, conversationally. “Yet you still hold back.”

He defends himself when Sam comes at him, easily predicting Sam’s every move. He ducks when Sam throws his left fist out and gets all up in Sam’s space to flatten his palms on Sam’s chest and push him.

Sam resists the urge to laugh; he’s already breathless, high.

“Stop overthinking it, Sam,” Castiel instructs, but Sam _can’t_. His mind is going a hundred miles per second, not being able to stop thinking about Cas’ capable hands, wondering if he has noticed the bruises he left on his shoulders from their private swimming lessons, if he’ll care to leave another proof he’s touched him today. Sam keeps purposefully not dodging some of Cas’ attacks just to make sure there are evidences of Cas’ fingerprints on his skin.

It’s a good fight. As good as hand-to-hand combats can be, since they usually don’t last very long in real life. They fall to the ground and leave it for a hot second just go back down again, and it’s hard to not see this whole thing as a ridiculous, brutal dance rehearsal, in which Cas is the only one who seems to know the correct moves.

And it’s not like Dean takes it easy with Sam, but Cas is unrelenting. There’s an admirable efficiency to his tactic, and he wields his body like he’s aware of each one of its parts. He fights the same way Sam devours a book.  Better than that, even.

Sam is focused on trying to learn something, as he always is, but Cas is too quick, too eager. Like he has no prospect of losing. Like this is pointless if he does.

He’s also not above head-butting, and finally, finally hovering above him now, Sam knows there’s a good chance of that happening, so in order to prevent it, he glues their foreheads together and presses down. He almost triumphs at keeping Castiel there by also placing his forearm down his neck, but then Cas hooks his leg just right and flips them over once more, his knee on Sam's chest.

Sam grunts and tries to dislodge him, but Cas sits on his hips with all of his body-weight, and his knee now pushes against Sam’s groin. He grabs for Sam’s wrists, holding them so tight, so tight a thrill courses through Sam, pools low on his stomach.

And that’s it. All of the fight melts right out of him.

Cas exhales into his face, close enough Sam has to swallow couple of times before finding his voice.

“Okay,” Sam breathes out, at the same time Cas says, “I win.”

Sam laughs nervously, does his best to stay still. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

And there it is on Cas’ face, that guarded, somewhat cocky expression with lips that lift but don't turn into an open smile very often. Sam mirrors it, can’t help it, and then licks his own lips. Cas’ mouth is more close to his than it’s ever been. He could kiss Cas right now, here while they’re panting on the living room floor and Cas is bodily pinning him down. He could do it, push a few inches up and close the space between them, ignore the fear of rejection that still troubles him and just revel in it the sensation of it.

“Cas,” he hears himself say, and it’s too close to a plea. “Cas, can you— Um— get off of me now? Please?”

Something flickers on Cas’ eyes as he pulls back, but before Sam can think too much about what it could mean, Castiel stands up, adjusts his ridden up shirt awkwardly.

Sam watches him walk away, then closes his eyes as he tries to relearn how to pull air into his lungs. _Shit_ , he thinks, blindly grabbing a pillow from the couch and holding it against his crotch. _Shit, fuck, shit, shit, shit._

By the time Cas returns with a bottle of water in hand as a peace offering and Dean shows up along with him, Sam has calmed down. Well, sort of. 

He takes his shirt off and cleans the sweat off of his face with it while he drinks the water, and then lays back down, his breathing still ragged. He closes his eyes again, the only way he can shut out the image of Cas smug face staring him down from his seat on the couch.

“Man, you look wrecked,” Dean laughs, nudging him with his toe.

Sam doesn’t move an inch, just continues to lay there contemplating every single aspect of his life and future. How much of a coward he is.

“Yeah,” he agrees, wholeheartedly.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel has been very particular about learning and managing to do things for himself, like cooking meals he likes, shaving his face, and washing his own boxers, so Sam doesn’t get this whole stealing-and-hoarding of his clothes that started to happen. Sure, most of the few clothes Cas owns are currently at the bottom of the dirty laundry pile, and that’s a plausible excuse as to why he keeps borrowing Sam’s shirts (and his flannels, every now and again), ignoring how big they are to properly fit him. The thing is, Sam is kind of not dealing well with Cas’ no-pants-at-home policy and how he can’t complain about it to Dean, who’s all for wearing nothing but ugly robes whenever he can. And it’s not that Sam is bad at sharing, it’s that the sight of Cas sneaking out of his bedroom dressed only in an T-shirt of his he used to sleep _last night_ is too much.

Sam is all too aware of the implications had it been Dean to catch Cas and god. God, he can't even—

“Seriously?” Sam asks, throwing his hands up in the air.

Cas has the decency to look guilty, even if only for a second.

“They’re comfortable,” he says, and that throws Sam off. Cas knows how to be deceiving, and somehow it makes it more disturbing that he always chooses to tell the truth.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Sam says, but it’s to hide how easy it is for Cas to get under his skin.

“They are,” says Castiel, rolling the short sleeves so the curve of his shoulders are exposed. When Sam suggests shopping and drags him out of the house, it’s that part of him that brushes against his arm as they walk down the street. And okay, though it’s accidental, it affects Sam to the point where he’s supervising his own tendency to over-analyze things and wordlessly invite Cas’ touches.

He’s still capable of picturing Castiel as someone separate from his body but as Cas himself put it, everything got so mangled. Cas was given this form to resemble Jimmy Novak and has embraced it as a version of himself, so Sam did too, and although at the back of his mind he’s always thinking of how greater Castiel is underneath it all, he _likes_ the way Cas is tangible, within reach. Still, once their arms brush again, Sam is yelling at himself in his head to calm down, because it’s really not a big deal, Jesus.

He takes a deep breath, tries to get himself together.

It’s useless.

Cas steps out of the dressing room of the second store they go to and asks how he looks, and Sam’s first reaction is to shove his hands far down his pockets so they don’t act on their own accord. He stutters until eventually managing to say something coherent like, “you look fine” and “yeah, it looks good on you” and “maybe we should find you something in another size?”

He's fiddling with his phone when he receives a text from Dean saying he’s going to take care of some things and to not wait up for him. He rolls his eyes at his phone screen, but then he’s picturing his brother’s face if he was here with them. Dean would see right through him and know right away of his internal turmoil, and it’d be him the one rolling his eyes. Sam texts him back an 'OK', and ignores more insinuations about him being alone with Cas.

He’s so focused on trying to distract himself that when a jacket is pushed against his chest, he doesn’t realize it’s meant for him. Cas stares him down until he tries it on, and makes him buy it with the promise that he won’t borrow it. Deep down Sam wouldn’t mind if he did; it’s not the borrowing of clothes that is the problem, but the fact that everything is difficult enough as it is without that added to the mix. Anyway, Cas doesn’t get it, and Sam isn’t about to tell him.

When they leave the store, Sam checks twice to make sure he didn’t forget the jacket and left it behind. He takes it out of the bag, rips the tag off. It’s too hot for him to wear it, and tying to his waist is out of the question. And Dean will mock him for it, definitely, but it was Cas who chose it.

He puts it back inside the bag. 

“Sam,” Cas says, coming to a halt, pulling Sam out of his thoughts. “Can we have some ice-cream? Or milk shake?”

The air is humid and the sun is mostly behind clouds, but the day is still summer-like enough that this is possibly the best idea Sam will hear today. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“I’ll pay,” Cas says, firmly.

“It’s okay, I got it,” Sam says, taking his wallet.

“Sam. I insist.”

Sam narrows his eyes. For sometime now, Cas hasn’t let him pay for any food they got whenever they went out. Anything from gummy-bears and ice-cream to full meals on restaurants.

“Dude, what is it with you and money these days?” Sam asks. Then he shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively, because how Cas deals with currency is not hard to understand. Dean once made a long-suffering speech about all of the stuff he needed to adapt to. It’s probably why he doesn’t even blink anymore when Cas pays for Sam’s salads. “No, nevermind. Stupid question.”

He finishes his milkshake first, throws the plastic container out once he spots a trashcan nearby.

On their way back home, long past just brushing their sides, they bump against each other at every step they take. It’s the only thing that distracts Sam from the sand sticking to the spaces between his toes, because they don’t talk, and the silence is too comforting for either of them to decide to break it.

Daylight’s almost gone when their hands touch, one on the back of the other. Sam is tempted to apologize for it, as stupid as it may seem, but Cas curls his index finger on his pinky. After another beat too long, their palms slide together, Cas looking at him from the corner of his eyes like he thinks there’s a chance this will spook Sam somehow.

Sam squeezes his hand once, twice, hoping that somehow conveys that it’s okay, that all the ways he feels about this are good, that he’s fucking ecstatic and only a little bit embarrassed. If he’s being honest, adolescent ways of freaking out aside, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it, because they've held hands before. His palm isn’t clammy and he’s not nervous, which is weird, sure, but good, too. It means there’s some certainty here, the warm feeling of having Cas’ hand clasped in his grounding him.

Since it’s the low-season, they’re far from the prying eyes of the crowds, but it’s not like they’re out of sight completely. All the way back home there are people crossing their path, people who can’t mistake them for anything else but what Sam wants them to be.

 _Are you screwing with me?_ He wants to ask. _Do you know what you’re doing? Am I reading too much into this?_ Before he can say the words, though, Cas snorts.

Sam doesn’t think Cas has ever done such thing in all the time they’ve known each other, so he frowns and asks, “What?”

To which Castiel answers by snorting again and cause milkshake to come off his nose. They stop in their tracks, Sam laughing as Cas winces at the brain-freeze for a moment before following suit.

Sam thinks he never heard Cas laugh, not like this, and it’s a pity, because he laughs like he’d been holding back his whole life, the delightful sound slowly delving into intakes of breath.

“Oh my—” Sam says, when he’s able to speak again. “Holy shit, Cas. You okay?”

“Ugh. This is disgusting,” Cas complains, since using his forearm to clean the mess only ends up spreading it across his face.

“Yeah, it is,” Sam says, although looking at the liquid running down Cas’ chin he’s fighting a sudden desire to lick. “Do you want me to go find you some napkins?”

“I think that would be wise, yes,” Cas says, still showing off his teeth.

Sam wants to do something dumb, so he looks down at their entwined hands and wonders for how much longer he can get away with all of this.

They go to a food kiosk to get a few napkins and right after Castiel cleans his own face, he takes his flip-flops off and tugs Sam down the beach so they can wash the sand off their feet. Before Cas decided to get inside their pool that used to be all he did when it came to interacting with bodies of water, so there’s no way he’ll propose a night swim, but Sam can’t guess what another one of his furtive looks means now.

“We should,” Sam starts. Clears his throat, “We should probably get inside.”

He points at the general direction of their house up ahead, not that far left to go, then rubs at his neck, feeling all of twenty years old again, awkward and shy and lovesick.

“Okay,” Cas says. “Let's go, then.”

They outrun the light drizzle gradually turning into another thunderstorm, tripping inside the house less than five minutes later.

Once they're past the threshold, Castiel hesitates for no apparent reason. Hope boils up Sam’s insides, but anxiety is coming right up next to it. He doesn’t know what the hell to say, much less if he should actually _do_ anything. He wishes Cas would push him against the door, place all of his cards on the table.

But Cas unclasps their hands. Takes a small, tentative step forward, then two back.

“Today was fun,” Sam comments, too late, almost at the same time Cas says, “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and cringes internally for how obvious his disappointment is. He gives away the bags with Cas’ new clothes, holds his new jacket close to his chest. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, g’night. I’m just gonna— You know. Go to my room, then. Just yell for me if you need anything. Bye.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, and runs up the stairs in quick strides without looking back, like a true Winchester.


	5. Chapter 5

Part of Sam wishes Dean would text from wherever he is to talk about whomever he’s with so he could think about something else other than this whole… disaster. He tried to read to take his mind off things, and since that didn't work, he's been rolling around in bed for endless hours, feeling sorry for himself. He stayed staring up at the ceiling for some time there, listening to the quiet, distant sounds of the waves crashing in the harbor outside, though it's done nothing to calm his nerves.

When he’s one hundred percent sure sleep won’t come, he leaves his room.

Soft footsteps follow him down the stairs all the way to the kitchen, because even after all this time, Castiel doesn’t know how to walk any other way but carefully, as if some part of him still expects to start floating in the air.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Hello,” Cas says, climbing onto the counter and leaning his side against the fridge. Despite having literally just bought new, comfy clothes, he's wearing the first of Sam's shirts he stole, an old light-gray thing with a small, weirdly shaped bleach stain right at the center of it.

“Can’t sleep?” Sam asks.

Castiel slightly shakes his head.

“You hungry? Want me to make you something?” Sam offers.

“I… Yes, if that’s alright,” Cas says. He looks tired, his shoulders heavy. “I didn’t think insomnia would be like this.”

Sam hums, understanding, though he doubts their shared lack of sleep are caused by the same things. It has been long enough that Cas is somewhat adapted to a lot of things that come with being human, and surprisingly, sleeping is something he doesn't have trouble doing, but it happens, sometimes.

“Think it might be anxiety? Stress?” Sam asks, already moving around preparing something for him to eat.

“No,” Cas lies, “What would I stress about?”

Sam snorts at the blatant sarcasm. “Dunno, you tell me.” 

“The room where I sleep… It’s strange,” Cas confesses. Something about his tone and his choice of words doesn’t sound right.

“We can redecorate it if you want,” Sam suggests. “So it feels like it’s actually your room.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that.

“I mean, I know we don’t know how long we’ll be staying here, but we could paint the walls and buy some new furniture? I don’t know. Whatever you want, ‘kay?”

Castiel nods, though he’s clearly skeptical.

Sam licks his thumb clean of peanut butter before putting the sandwich on a plate and handing it over.

He steps into Cas’ space to check the cupboard above his head, and barely notices Cas eyeing the sandwich like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen and then setting it beside him on the counter. Sam finds the glass he’d been looking for and as he reaches for it, Cas’ hands lay on his hips. He balances himself with a hand on Cas’ shoulder and sets down the glass as Cas’ arms slide around his torso.

And then they’re hugging, because hugging is what they do.

“The other day, on the couch,” Castiel says quietly, like a secret. “It helped. And I wish it would happen again.”

“Cas,” Sam says, a little desperate as he struggles to pull away. “It’s three in the morning, alright, just—”

“Sam,” Cas snarls, eyes still bright despite the low light that surrounds them. “I would appreciate it very much if you were honest with me, because I still can’t tell if I’m doing this right and you have promised me that you’d tell me whenever I misinterpret—”

He falls silent, eyes widening as Sam leans his face closer. “Alright, what?”

“Sam.”

“No. I need you to tell me, okay? I mean, this. This whole thing,” Sam says, sounding tired even to his own ears. He presses his temple against Castiel’s, tightens his grip where they're still on Cas' hips. “The way we’ve been— What the hell are we even doing, Cas?”

He can feel Castiel frowning. “I don’t like it when you play dumb.”

Okay. Okay, then. This it.

“So I’m not— I’m not making this up?” Sam asks. “And I’m not— I didn’t push you into it or—”

Castiel turns so they’re looking at each other’s faces again and his frown grows deeper.

“You’re not making any sense,” he says.

“Sorry," Sam swallows, "I just mean. You’re into me, right? As in, you think of me as maybe someone other than only a friend?” He asks because it’s been going on for some time, maybe before they even came here, and some reassurance would be nice. 

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Cas says. “I love you. And I've given you multiple opportunities to kiss me. If I may say,” Cas puffs his chest and crossing his ankles behind Sam’s waist, digging his fingers where they are on Sam's shoulders, “I’m quite disappointed you haven’t done something about that yet.”

“Yeah?” Sam says, but he’s already reducing the space between their lips until there’s none of it left.

Cas sighs against his mouth, and Sam closes his eyes because he understands what that means, because inside of him too there is a feeling that is all relief. It spreads through his body and settles in as Cas kisses back.

And God, he had forgotten what it’s like. Loving someone first. The anticipation is a hopeful feeling pulsing through him, and the desire for more isn’t desperate, though it’s definitely there.

He pulls away for a second but when Cas chases after him he dives right back in. Cas’ lips are a little dry, a little chapped, and it takes only a few seconds for the whole thing to turn into a mess because he keeps forgetting the point of this and their teeth keep clicking.

“Dude, stop smiling like that and let me kiss you,” Sam says, chuckling low, because it’s okay, more than okay, even. He doesn’t need it to be perfect. He needs it to be real. Honest.

He presses in and Cas’ lips are welcoming, slotting into place between his. They move slow at first, because Sam is still feeling a bit reluctant, cautious in a way people are only with what they care about most. 

Cas has other plans. He nibbles at Sam’s lower lip, draws a soft noise out the back of Sam’s throat when one of his hands slip under his shirt.

When he starts pull away, Sam tilts his head and goes in for more.  When he uses his tongue to taste the inside of Cas’ mouth, it’s warmer than he expected it to be.

The way every single thing is reciprocated makes it all start to escalate, so Sam breaks their lips apart to slow things down again. It’s been too long since he’s had something that meant more than sex, so he wants to enjoy this first without making it lead up to it so soon.

Cas seems to be keen on driving him insane, though. He kisses the same way he fights, full of intent and aware of his entire body. His hand doesn’t leave Sam’s hair, and he tugs it gently to control the unraveling of things. The hand that is on Sam’s abdomen is enough to cause goosebumps to rise up Sam’s skin, and around him, Cas' legs are strong as he pulls him closer.

“You should, um, you should eat,” Sam says at some point.

“In a minute,” Cas says, leaving kisses across Sam’s jaw, his teeth scraping his neck. Sam shivers at the thought of him leaving a hickey, and opens up easily when Cas’ lips make their way back to his.

 

It’s only when they almost make the sandwich and the glass fall to the floor that it all really comes to a stop.

“Sorry,” they both say simultaneously, and Sam chuckles lightly.

Castiel uncrosses his ankles to let Sam get him some orange juice. When Sam comes back to standing in the space between his legs, his hands on his thighs, he slowly takes bite after bite of his PB&J without breaking eye-contact.

“Good?” Sam asks, pressing his lips together to hide a smirk. 

Cas’ fingertip trace his cheek. Sam tries not to lean on the touch, though he really wants to.

“My grace tried to heal those muscle deformities the first time I healed you,” says Cas, not sounding as melancholy at the mention of his grace the way he did the first few months after falling, which is definitely a win.

But wait.

“Muscle deform— You mean my dimples?” Sam asks.

Castiel nods, eats the last bit of his sandwich.

“They’re very deep,” he points out.

“Yeah, I think maybe they’re deeper now, but I don’t know. And, um, did you know,” Sam says, knowing he begins phrases with that sentence when he’s close to start babbling, “there’s been research to find out if it’s genetic? I’m pretty sure it isn’t but it’d be kinda weird if it was, right?”

Cas blinks, looks down at Sam’s mouth then up again. “I don’t think human genetics is what we should be discussing.”

Sam steals a quick kiss, just because he can. “You started it.”

“I was trying to give you a compliment,” says Cas, carefully pulling him down by the shirt to steal the kiss right back.

“And you thought you had to lead up with my ‘muscle deformities’?” Sam asks, brow furrowed.

“You wouldn’t have it if I outright told you you’re kind, and strong, and beautiful. And that I think you should smile more often.”

Sam shifts from one foot to the other. He doesn’t believe those adjectives could fit him somehow, but he’s glad the lights are dim and nobody can see his face turning pink.

“I can say the same things about you, Cas,” he says. “You’re amazing, and you—”

“See?” Cas interrupts, his grin unshakable. “You won’t accept it, even though it’s the truth. That’s why I mentioned the dimples first. That and because saying you have nice teeth would sound strange, even for me.”

Sam holds Castiel's face, gently strokes his cheeks with his thumbs, and leaves two kisses right at the center of his mouth, giving in when Cas responds to it and makes it last longer. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispers, eyes still closed. “You.”

Castiel takes one of Sam's hands off his face and holds it against his chest, pressing his thumb on Sam’s palm until it hurts enough to be a bit uncomfortable. Sam is thankful for that, though there are no words to express how much.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you either,” Castiel says, and that makes Sam open his eyes, but before he can protest Cas adds, “I suppose we’ll simply have to deal with it.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Hand to hand, they made their way to Sam’s bedroom. Across the hall was Castiel’s room, an exact replicated version of it, with the same boring white walls and a large bed and a wide window, but apparently Cas’ comfort zone lay within Sam’s personal space.

Neither of them were any sleepier than compared to fifteen minutes earlier, so Cas crawled over Sam’s sprawled form on top of the mattress and their lips met again, each press a request and a promise for more.

They’ve been making out for some time when Sam notices the slow rotation of Cas’ hips, and he lets the kissing continue because it’s the best he can do when trying to hide an apprehension that he can’t shake off, his muscles tensing a bit more the harder he tries to relax. Before he gets himself under control, Castiel pulls away.

“Sam?” he asks, not a trace of judgment in his voice, the kindness in his eyes infinite in a way that it’s almost unbearable.

“Sorry,” Sam apologizes, hiding his face on Castiel’s shoulder, finding solace in their closeness. It’s quiet for another beat, and then Sam mumbles in a rush, “It’s just that. It’s been. Well, forever since I’ve been with someone I,” he holds his breath, lets it out slowly, “have feelings for.”

“Good ones, I hope.”

Sam lift his head. “Cas, look…”

“I know,” Cas interrupts, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Sam’s ear. “I’m only joking. You don’t need to tell me of your love. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t well aware of it.”

Sam nods. Right. “You’re important to me,” he says, because if he can’t make love declarations, that is the closest he can get to it for the time being. “So everything with you is, too. And I just,” he smiles, self-deprecating, “I kind of can’t believe this is actually happening.”

See, Sam is not usually self-conscious when it comes to sex; he’s acutely aware of what he’s into, what his priorities are. What is causing him to suddenly lose composure, to question if he should take a step back and maybe postpone this, is the simple fact that this Cas, the only person who knows every single one of the dark parts there are to him and who doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by any of them. All the vulnerability implied, all the ways Cas keeps saving him still, even when Sam is the one trying to return the favor in kind, makes Sam’s skin tingle. The problem is... There’s no way to undo whatever it is they’re becoming, and that is terrifying in and out of itself without including sex. But including it, there’s so much stuff that could ruin what they already have. The accumulated guilt that Sam has, for starters. He doesn’t think he will ever fully believe himself to be deserving of Cas, and then there’s the probability that he fantasized about this too much. And who wouldn’t, had they spent their entire life settling for detached encounters like he did?

“Um, I’m. I’m sorry, can we just start over?” Sam asks, getting back up on his elbows. He rubs circles on Cas’ hipbones, noticing that he really, _really_ likes how responsive Cas is to the any kind of touch.

“Sam,” Castiel says, clearly amused. “Whatever’s troubling you… It’s alright. I don’t mind it.”

Sam wonders if Cas knows he can differentiate him from his body and what Cas would think if he knew how much time Sam spent thinking about that, wishing he could really see or touch him somehow.

“Yeah,” says Sam, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what goes through my mind half the time I’m with you.”

“I’m sure it’s not any different to what is on _my_ mind when I’m with _you_.”

Sam snorts. “I don’t think so.”

“No? And why is that? I’m not as naive as you may think I am.”

“I know you’re not,” Sam blows a breath, “It’s just that it’s me, and it’s you, and you’re the best person I know and honestly? It’s like you don’t even _know_ that.”

Cas’ confusion shifts into outrage. He closes his eyes briefly, all but crosses his arms, “It would be rude of me to call you a hypocrite right now, wouldn’t it? But that is what you’re being.”

Sam huffs, “God, shut up,” and looks away, because no matter what he can’t handle Cas’ praise, however subtle.

“Sam, please look at me,” Castiel urges, so Sam does. Awaits expectant as Cas carefully leans in and kisses him full on the mouth once more, firm and encouraging, one hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other on his face. “If you don’t want to—”

“I want it,” Sam says, wishing he could guide Cas hand to prove it true. “‘Course I want it. Jesus, how much I want this it’s the whole point.”

Castiel is unmovable. “You can still say no.”

It clicks into place, then. Sam isn’t the only one tiptoeing around this, searching for any potential of disaster.

Outside the storm keeps raging on, and the sudden sound of thunder reverberates through the house. Cas grows stiff, expecting a blow.

“I’m not gonna say no,” Sam says. If anything, he wants to believe Cas’ ardent gaze means that he hasn’t been the only one whose nights were spent imagining things, yearning for them. So he places a kiss or two on Cas’ throat, hums distractedly at the sigh he gets as a response, “I’m not going to, that’s not— I just don’t want to disappoint you, that’s all.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Okay,” Sam smirks, more at ease. “How do you want to do this?”

“How do _you_?”

Pretty sure there’s nothing Sam wouldn’t let Cas do to him, but maybe it’s better to take it easy right now. He twists the hem of Cas’ shirt upwards, “Take this off.”

After they fumble to get rid of all pieces of clothing, Sam smooths his hands over Cas, down his chest, roaming over his shoulders. His skin is soft despite the newest collection of scars over it, and he’s gained more muscle in comparison to the first time Sam’s seen him shirtless, on a laundromat, months ago. Sam had expected Cas to have a skinny frame under his dozen of layers, and couldn't mask his surprise upon finding out that wasn’t the truth. Castiel is _solid_ and Sam sort of obsesses about it, a little. Cas is still fairly new as a human and yet he remains perfectly capable of overpowering Sam if he wishes to do so.

Castiel takes advantage of Sam’s lips parting to draw the rest of both their worries out with each trick of his tongue, incite desire furthermore. Sam doesn’t know if Cas learned to kiss like this somewhere or if he’s just going at it instinctively, but he opens up to it and enjoys how _good_ it is regardless. With his thumb he draws a line down Castiel’s belly, then threads his knuckles across his pubic hair only to hear Cas’ breath hitch. Cas breaks their lips apart with a tug to Sam’s hair and in retaliation nips and sucks the far corner of Sam’s jaw, making his way down until he can lick the dip between Sam’s collarbone.

Sam lets out a breathy laugh and swallows audibly.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, and doesn't hesitate after Cas says yes. He grasps them both together in his hand, each roll and thrust of his own hips slow, steady. A lesson in self-control. Sex is a two-way street, after all. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Cas breathes.

“It feels good, right?”

Castiel grunts, nods vehemently. He blinks a lot, seeks out Sam’s lips for more kissing; Sam complies, though the angle isn’t that easy to manage. Cas holds onto his shoulders while he keeps his strokes, and not much long later, with his eyes wide like he’s just had a revelation, Castiel gasps.

“Oh, Sam, I think—”

“Yeah? You’re close?” Sam chuckles, desperate to catalog as much of the details he can so he can relish the memory of them years from now. The sounds of their rhythm, the hot friction of flesh against flesh, the moans that quickly descend into little whines when their movements turn erratic. How tight Cas clutches to him, the broken way his name escapes Cas’ swollen lips, a vivid shade of pink just a whisper away, and the flush across Cas’ skin. How in his element Castiel looks here, shaking apart under Sam’s maneuvering.

“Say my name,” demands Cas, as he lets go of Sam’s shoulder to wrap his hand around Sam’s wrist and speed things up.

“Oh, Jesus fucking—”

“ _My_ name, Sam,” Cas says, and Sam feels the rumble of his laughter echo inside his own chest.

“Fuck, sorry, shit, Cas, Casti— Oh, _fuck_ —”

  

 

Sam is still panting when he looks sideways to see reflected on Cas’ lips the tired smile that lingers on his own face. God, he hopes they both can get used to feeling like this. Happy, unashamed.

“Hey, think you can sleep now?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, “but I don’t want to.”

Sam hums. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”


	7. Chapter 7

 

A visit to the farmer’s market and bags of a variation of fruit later, Sam’s still debating with himself if a fruit salad would be too sweet for Cas, whose taste in any sort of food remains an unsolvable mystery. Despite that, he buys honey and makes some toast. The coffee is starting to brew when he’s hugged from behind.

“Cas,” Sam slightly leans back, breathing in deep Cas’ smell, soap-clean and floral body lotion. “Is everything okay?”

Right in his ear, like he’s standing on his toes, Cas’ sleep-muddled voice says, “Bite me.”

Sam twists and tries to sink his teeth on the closest part of Castiel he can reach. Cas dodges out of the way without letting go of Sam’s waist, and Sam’s mouth ends up connecting with the point of his shoulder.

Castiel makes a disapproving noise, thumps his forehead against Sam’s back.

“Please tell me there’s something other than bread for me to eat,” Cas mutters.

“Yeah, actually. I got you some stuff.”

 

Cas eats most of the fruit and breakfast goes by at a natural pace.

Sam thought some sort of big change in the air was bound to happen but it just feels fresher than it’s ever been and he and Cas are breathing in synch now. He can’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.

He notices that Castiel is clutching and typing away on his phone with one hand, the other curled around his mug as if there’s any chance Sam’s gonna let him drink any more coffee than he already has.

“Watcha doing there, Cas?” Sam asks. The rain has let up though the day is still fairly gray. Everything seems to be in the right place and Sam wants the sun to break out to match his insides. Without proper beach weather, he figures they could drive up and down the coast instead, search for non-touristy things to do. If Cas has any plans, Sam’s good with that as well.

Looking up, Castiel nitpicks his words to answer. “Texting.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “What are you up to?”

The cellphone is pushed towards him and Sam’s breath gets caught in his throat. In capitalized letters and many exclamation points, someone congratulates Cas and asks when they’re coming down to the shelter.

“I’m—” Sam starts, staring down at the chat like he’s afraid it’s a trick and it would disappear in case he looked away. “I’m not sure I understand but Dean—”

“Needed less persuasion than I anticipated.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Sam thinks back to the night before, the naturality of it and how real it felt. How real this could be, even if he can’t quite make himself believe it. It seems like it’s too much too fast.

“I am deadly serious, Sam.”

“Cas, you can’t, man,” Sam tells him, grasping stubbornly at its own skepticism. “We can’t get a dog.”

Castiel levels him up with a stare. “Do you trust me?”

What kind of ridiculous question. “You know I do.”

“Then trust me also when I say you’re allowed to have good things. And to accept them, when someone wants to give them to you.”

Sam doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly. He lifts one shoulder and it comes out anyway, “Already have more than I deserve. Don’t need anything else.”

“You’re wrong,” says Cas. He frowns, and then repeats, with more conviction, “ _You’re wrong_. You don’t have half the life you deserve.” The tip of his index finger come in contact with the skin of Sam’s wrist like he could draw what kind of life that would be there. He sighs, “But that is a discussion for another time. We’ll go get the dog at the end of the afternoon. I must admit that initially, I thought about using it as a ploy to confess my feelings to you and have you accept to date me, and, well. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

Sam swallows. As if Cas would manipulate him into saying yes to anything. He’s trying to pry a response from Sam other than utter disbelief. Part of Sam does want to jump around like a kid, but he can’t. It’s not easy. Overwhelming joy is difficult to handle, especially because he never experienced it much. What the hell did Cas say to Dean to convince him? When did he decided this? How are they going to just… adopt a dog? Although much needed, this was always meant to be a temporary vacation, not an actual, new homebase.

“And that’s that?” Sam asks, heart ricocheting inside his ribcage. “Not even opened for discussion?”

“I’ve already discussed it,” Castiel shrugs. “And it’s been decided that I’m getting you a dog, whether you keep pretending to not want one or not.”

Sam fidgets. He’s not pretending anything.

 

Dean walks through the front door and Sam waits for the world to fall apart at his feet.

It doesn’t.

Dean doesn’t spare a glance at Cas feet propped up on Sam’s lap. His jaw has smudged lipstick, and there’s no way in hell the shirt he’s wearing is actually his.

“Hey,” Sam greets, eyebrows raised. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, y’know. Going for walks, admiring the view. Getting acquainted with our neighbors…”

Sam snorts and Dean makes a mock pained-face, hand on his chest. “The things I do for family.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for you.”

“Why can’t I send you text messages?” Castiel cuts in, as Dean sits.

“That would be ‘cause I blocked you,” Dean answers, shoving a toast in his mouth.

Cas doesn’t look affronted one bit. “You, of all people, are output by conversations about sex?”

Dean groans like he’s in physical pain. “Sam, please tell your boyfriend to stop being a dick.”

“What? What did Cas do?”

A phone is shoved at his face again.

 

  

> **Dean:**  You eat kiwi for breakfast AND you want to bang my brother. Damn right I dunno how we’re still friends 
> 
> ** Castiel: ** If I remember correctly you’re the one who ate all my kiwi. And we’re friends because no normal person would willingly put up with you. 
> 
> **Castiel:** By the way, I now have, as you said, ‘banged’ Sam. Non-penetrative sex still counts in my opinion.
> 
> **Dean: ** Dude, ew, what the fuck, spare me the details
> 
> ** Castiel: ** Stop eating my kiwis, first.

 

 

Sam takes a deep, steadying breath after he stops laughing, barely managing to stop the tears from keep coming.

“TMI, Cas. TMI,” Dean rambles on and on, to no avail. “I don’t need to know about your stuff. You know what, I’m done,” he turns to Sam, the look of a desperate man and a very tired older brother obvious in his face, “You explain it to him.”

Fuck if this isn’t probably one of the best days of Sam’s life.

“And stop the fun?” Sam says, relaxing in his seat with a wide grin, his hand around Cas’ ankle like a secret code for  _thank you, thank you for everything_. “Nah, I’m good.”

  
  
  


Dean’s in the hammock outside when they return from the animal shelter. His headphones are blasting something loud and he’s sipping beer and singing along as if the veranda is his stage. The dog barks at him as soon as he sees him, and only stops after nuzzling his leg.

“Great,” Dean says, watching as both Cas and Sam sit on the floor to pet the dog. He shakes his head, “You had to go and pick the cutest one.”


	8. Chapter 8

 

“No. Don’t even think about it,” Dean says.

Sam hovers. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You were thinking it, and I’m telling you. Don’t you dare.”

“Fine, whatever,” Sam concedes, though the sight of Dean’s reddened face is seriously worrisome. “Don’t come crying for help when your skin starts to fall off.” He signals Castiel to come closer, “You, c’mere.”

Reapplying sunscreen to one’s partner is not exciting in the slightest. The palm of Sam’s hand is  _ gross _ and they should’ve bought something from another brand because this one smells funny and only contributes to sand sticking  _ everywhere _ . 

He spreads it on Castiel’s entire back slowly, using the opportunity to put his massage skills to test. When he’s done, he turns Cas around and starts rubbing the sunscreen on Cas’ face.

The dog runs around their legs trying to catch their attention, tail flapping in excitement. Dean whistles to call him and he jumps on his sunburnt stomach, licks up his face. Dean pretends to be bothered and disgusted. The dog slept on the bed with Sam and Cas, but woke him up and made him company until they decided to go downstairs. Sam hasn’t decided a name, mostly because Dean vetoed every suggestion claiming they sounded dumb for a dog that’ll grow up to be a badass. 

  
  
  
  


Out of the blue, Cas says,  “Do you want to know why I pray?”

Like any summer should be, it’s finally sunny and bright again, and the unexpected question is like a cloud’s shadow, making  Sam pause. He won’t say anything that might discourage Castiel, so he just listens.

“Prayers are sacred in a way greater you can imagine,” says Cas. His eyes are closed but he looks so open here, under the blazing sun on a Tuesday morning. “I guess I could say it helps me feel… Settled.” 

Sam applies sunscreen on his neck, a caress more than anything. Without prompting, Castiel continues,  “I pray to God. I tell him that I’m thankful, despite everything. Sometimes I ask if He understands my—  _ our _ struggle to forgive Him. It doesn’t matter to me that he never answers. It’s one of the upsides of having once been an angel, I think. I know for a fact He is listening. It’s oddly comforting.”

Castiel opens his eyes and Sam can’t help wondering, “Do you still love Him?”

“Yes. That is not to say he hasn’t wronged me and the ones I love, or that I can easily put it past me. But yes, I still…” he trails off.

Sam might never fully know the depth of Cas’ pain regarding God and what it actually means for an angel to fall, but for what it’s worth, he understands. As troubled and hurtful his own father were, he doesn’t think somewhere deep down his love for him will ever cease. 

“Thank you for telling me that,” he says, holding Cas’ face between his hands. “I know, trust me, I  _ know _ that Dean and I are terrible examples of how to deal with crap, so I just. I need you to know it’s okay to open up and ask for help, to  _ talk _ about how, I don’t know, frustrated or hurt or scared you are. I need you to know we’re here for you, okay? We’re here  _ with _ you, every step of the way, if you let us,” he kisses Cas quick, soft, ignoring the taste of salt. “And I’ll take care of you, if you let me.”

“You already do,” Cas points out. 

Sam stares.

“Fine. As long as you’ll let me take care of you as well.”

He’s done more of his fair share of that, but Sam nods.

  
  
  


The waves are low but the water is  _ freezing _ . Sam thinks it’s hilarious how Cas won’t shut up about it. They splash water on each other and Sam thinks there’s a chance Cas will pull something straight out of Dean’s vocabulary to insult him.

Before that happens, Cas submerges.

Sam dives after him and pulls him up, holding him above water, only to then realize he wasn’t drowning. The swimming lessons paid off, apparently.

“I’m experiencing life for the first time, again, Sam,” Castiel says, and he’s more radiant than Sam’s ever seen. “Do you mind?”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this a while back and I'm sorry it took so long. This is now complete. I hope you enjoyed it!


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